


fifty kisses to christmas

by nokomisfics



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: (it's implicit leave me alone), (wow spoiler much), Best friend fluff, Christmas fic, Cute boys in love, Domestic Phan, Domesticity, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Merry Christmas!, Schmoop, besides me ofc, does anyone even have canapes for christmas/new year's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nokomisfics/pseuds/nokomisfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That any better?” Phil asks.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dan says, biting his lip. He sounds breathless.</p><p>“Okay.” Phil pulls away properly this time, getting to his feet. Dan looks up at him, not moving from his position on the bed, and Phil reaches down to pat at his cheek gently. “I'll make us a toastie for tea? Turn the telly on, I've got Saturday’s episode saved. Haven't deleted it or anything.”</p><p>“Alright,” Dan says, still sounding a bit like he's short for breath. When Phil leaves the room, he feels eyes on the back of his neck.</p><p>or: Phil gives Dan fifty kisses for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fifty kisses to christmas

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: phil reads an article online about research that suggest 'kissing reduces stress levels', and dan is stressed about videos, christmas pressure and other commitments. phil starts kissing him to get him to chill out and enjoy the holiday season :)
> 
> this turned out to be way longer than initially planned, but i'm weirdly proud of it anyway. my beta couldn't give this a read through so any and all mistakes are mine. and, finally, i didn't make a playlist specific to this fic but [here's my christmas playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/kryswaitforitanne/playlist/05pmO5pfcNNP9F40gdaUZv) have a blast. x
> 
> EDIT (7/2/17):  
> this fic has surprised me by winning Twice during the Phanfic Awards, once for best one-shot of 2016 and again for best fluff of 2016. thank you very much to everyone who voted! i don't write for this fandom anymore, but thanks anyways. it's been real 

It is weirdly quiet for three in the afternoon.

Now, he and Dan, they aren't exactly  _ loud _ per se. So sometimes they leave music on and the neighbours complain, but it's fine, like. Neighbours are meant to complain, aren't they? And it's not a habit, but since the last week of November Phil's been playing his Christmas playlists on the stereo - he's got Michael Buble and Mariah Carey and Pentatonix, it's  _ great _ \- but it isn't playing today. And he knows for a fact he had put it on after breakfast.

“Dan?” he calls from the kitchen. Not that Dan might hear or, even less likely, reply. But Phil's always been an optimistic one. He strains the tea he's been preparing and pours it into two cups, then takes them with him as he thumps up the stairs to where their rooms are. On the way he peeks into the lounge; the telly’s turned off, and the stereos with it.

“Dan,” he says again, when he's standing outside his room. The door is shut, which is absurd in itself. He frowns at it. “Help me open the door, my hands are full,” he tries. Still no reply. And he knows Dan hasn't left the house, not after the little quarrel they had over lunch over Phil deleting the recorded episodes of The Great British Bake-Off before Dan had gotten around to watching them. (In Phil’s defense, Dan  _ had _ watched them. Last Friday night, over dinner,  _ with Phil _ . If he was too tipsy to remember any of it, Phil wasn't the one to blame.)

He huffs a little and puts one of the cups down by his feet - it's one of the white and pink Baemax ones that they'd been given after voice-acting for Big Hero 6. Dan's been preferring it over his usual red Lego Movie mug as of late. “I’m coming in,” Phil warns, before twisting the knob with his now empty hand and pushing the door open.

Dan’s curled up in a little ball on the far end of the room, on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest and his head buried in between them.

“Oh, Dan,” says Phil softly, going to him, leaving his cup of tea on Dan’s cluttered desk before kneeling in front of him and petting the back of his head a little. “Hey,” he says again, and bites his lip when Dan just shakes his head and doesn't respond.

The existential crises had begun taking a sharp sort of turn over the past few months, Phil hadn't noticed until they'd gotten back from the tour to only have Dan sit on the coffee table and rub at his eyes. Phil had made it all the way to the kitchen before realising Dan was probably crying. They hadn't talked about it, but Phil had tried looking out for him after that. It was something he hadn't had to do in long and he was a little bit out of touch.

He is made aware of that now more than any time else.

“C’mon,” he says, a bit helplessly. He doesn't know how to make it any better, to make the thoughts running around Dan’s head slow down to a trot, and then maybe stop them from moving altogether. He runs his hand along Dan’s arm, gently, remembering how Dan had always craved proximity when it got very bad.

“I’m okay,” Dan says, muffled.

Phil rolls his eyes at him, but only because he can’t be seen. “You don't have to lie to me about feeling miserable,” Phil points out. He tugs at Dan’s fingers where they're curled around his legs. Dan huffs a little at that, like he's laughing. Most definitely to humour Phil, but he'll take it. “I made tea,” he offers.

Dan raises his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his skin pale. He tries at a smile, and if it comes out like a grimace, Phil doesn't say anything about it. “Thanks,” Dan says, sounding like he means it.

Phil still feels like a terrible friend as he goes to fetch Dan's mug from where he left it outside the room.

He spends the evening with him, sprawled out on his bed while Dan taps away on his computer at the desk. They talk enough to make the tea run cold, and then Phil leaves to make some more. They've got to respond to some emails from the guys at the BBC about the gigs they want to do next year, and there are designs for the Shop that they've still got to confirm. Instead, Dan scrolls through tumblr and plays the new Panic! At The Disco songs out loud, and Phil doesn't bring up any of it.

They call in pizza for dinner and at half past three in the morning, Dan falls into bed beside Phil and promptly falls asleep.  

When he returns to his own room, after covering Dan with the duvet and turning off all the lights in the apartment, he takes his laptop to bed and Googles  _ how to cheer up friend _ .

 

* * *

 

Phil thinks Dan’s problem is that he's too intelligent. It's the problem with a lot of sad people, is what he reads from the internet that night. Not that any of it is especially reliable information, but it does make a bit of sense. Dan’s smart enough to be aware of all the little things that happen to them, and the big things too, and he's smart enough analyse them for hours on end and realise things Phil has only ever had nightmares about - that loneliness is an option, and happiness is subjective, and is it even worth it to try so hard to leave an impression on a world that is constantly changing?

Phil doesn't know what it must be like inside Dan's head. He reads and tries and reads and tries and none of it works. He doesn't know how to fix his friend.

So the week draws to a close, and the next one begins because that's how time works, unfortunately, and the pending mails catch up with them and Dan grows irritable and impatient and worse, somehow. And Phil doesn't know how to fix any of it.

“I can't find my planner,” Dan says Monday evening. He's standing at the door of Phil’s bedroom and tapping his foot impatiently.

“You can have a look around,” Phil says from his desk, “but I don't think you've left it in here.”

“I've already looked when you were having a shower,” Dan answers, petulantly. “I'm asking if you've seen it.”

“I haven't.” Phil shrugs, and then holds out his own planner, a brown leather-bound book that they'd purchased with Dan's black one back in January. “I've got the dates in mine, though, here.”

“I don't want your fucking planner,” Dan says, and then he stomps his foot, and leaves. Phil doesn't have to look at the door to know he's screwed up his face in annoyance, cheeks flushed with anger.

“Suit yourself,” Phil calls out behind him and immediately regrets it. He hears Dan thump down to the lounge where he no doubt turns the place upside down. Then he stomps back up the stairs and disappears into his own room. The door slams not long after.

Phil sighs, and then goes to knock at it.

“Come in,” Dan says from the other side, sounding a bit subdued.

“You know you've got to figure this out,” Phil tells him, walking in. Dan’s sat at the edge of his bed, body rigid as anything, legs crossed underneath him. Phil goes to kneel in front of him on the floor and taps his knees gently, trying to get Dan to look at him. From the corner of his eye he sees Dan's black planner resting next to him on the bed. “Dan.”

“It was in the kitchen,” Dan says, refusing to meet Phil's eyes, staring instead down at his lap. “On top of the oven. I'd written down my Christmas gift ideas in it, s’why I couldn't take yours. Couldn't remember what I wanted to buy Martyn.”

Phil doesn't know when they'd become those friends who bought gifts for the other's family. Like Dan's five million subscribers, and the Book and the Tour and the Shop and the App, it just kind of happened.

“You need to figure this out,” Phil says again, softer this time.

“I know,” Dan answers, voice rough.

“I don't know how to help,” Phil admits, trying not to sound too helpless as he says it.

“You don't have to help me.” His voice cracks when he says  _ have _ , giving it all away.

“I want to. Hey.” He reaches up to poke at Dan’s chin, hooking his finger underneath it and pushing his face up. Dan finally, finally looks at him. And he looks so, so tired. “Hey, you're my best friend, right? I want to help.”

Dan blinks at him, slow and confused. His skin is warm under Phil's finger. Phil knows there's something restless in there, in the mind of this beautiful boy, thoughts that won't let him sleep at night, that won't let him  _ be _ . He pokes at Dan's cheek, because he likes how soft it always is, and he likes Dan, and he wants him to be okay.

Quickly, like if he does it fast enough it may not have happened at all, Phil shoots up to press his lips to Dan’s. Then he pulls back and says, quick as he can, “I read somewhere that it helps.”

“What?” Dan looks stunned and a bit incredulous, two dots of red high on his cheeks, his eyes bright. “ _ What? _ ” he asks again, maybe for good measure.

“I was on the internet,” Phil rushes to explain. “I was looking for things that might help? And I read somewhere that kissing helps to, like, reduce stress. I'll look for a link if you want, I'm not lying.” He  _ isn't _ . “It says that if you're really stressed out, kissing someone helps you to relax, like. It's a bit like fighting. Same, um, hormones.” He's rambling a bit and he sounds like an arse, he knows. He  _ knows _ . “I've not gone mad,” Phil adds, sheepishly.

“You idiot,” Dan says, but follows it up with a laugh. He isn't running for the hills, which is something, Phil thinks. He's also got that face on, the one that says,  _ Phil Lester is the silliest person on the face of the earth and he is also my best friend _ . Phil is rather fond of that face on him.

“I'm an idiot,” Phil agrees. He's still on his knees and they're beginning to hurt a bit, but he knows if he moves to sit beside Dan on the bed, he'll stop looking at him. And it's all of a sudden very important that Dan keeps his eyes on him, keeps his face close enough to kiss. “Did it help any?”

“What,  _ that _ ?” Dan laughs again. “That wasn't even a kiss, it was, like - a peck. You can't solve anything with a  _ peck _ .”

“Should I try again, then?” Phil asks. He's being cheeky because Dan doesn't look like he's about to cry anymore, and he's happy about that. But then Dan shrugs and, well. That isn't exactly a  _ no _ , is it?

He slips his fingers into Dan’s hair, and then - slow enough that Dan can stop him if he wants to - pulls him down till their noses bump. Dan shuts his eyes and purses his lips just the bit, and Phil's heart thumps his chest when he kisses him again.

This time, he doesn't pull away immediately.

Phil's kissed his fair share of boys in his time, but he's never kissed Dan, and there's a certain thrill that comes with kissing someone new that he'd forgotten about until now. Dan tastes like the eggs they had for breakfast, and the toothpaste they've been using for years, and like something else sweet and tasty - candy floss, maybe. He kisses reservedly, like he's got a secret, and keeps trying to pull away before coming back again. Phil doesn't know if Dan's ever kissed a boy before, but thinks he'd like to find out just how much of experience he's had. His skill set is  _ exceptional _ .

He doesn't miss the way Dan slumps into him, like the fight’s been sucked out of his body, leaving him pliant and soft and so, so kissable. He makes small sounds into Phil’s mouth, and bunches up Phil's shirt with his hand, and it's great. Phil doesn't know if it's supposed to feel this great to kiss your best friend.

When he pulls away eventually, Dan keeps him close with his hands on Phil's chest, and bumps their noses together with a little grin on his lips.

“That any better?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Dan says, biting his lip. He sounds breathless.

“Okay.” Phil pulls away properly this time, getting to his feet. Dan looks up at him, not moving from his position on the bed, and Phil reaches down to pat at his cheek gently. “I'll make us a toastie for tea? Turn the telly on, I've got Saturday’s episode saved. Haven't deleted it or anything.”

“Alright,” Dan says, still sounding a bit like he's short for breath. When Phil leaves the room, he feels eyes on the back of his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil makes tea when he's unsure of something. He's from the North, of  _ course _ he does. He busies himself in the kitchen, putting the kettle to boil and taking out the tea leaves from the cabinet. They'd picked up rose leaves the last time they went to the shops, straying from their usual Yorkshire in the spirit of being adventurous. Phil cuts open the packet with a knife and pours it into the jar they usually use for biscuits. He catches a whiff of it and can only hope it tastes as good as it smells.

So it helped. Phil knew it helped, even before he'd asked Dan if it did. He'd felt Dan’s body relax against his two seconds into the kiss, and remembers how Dan had looked afterwards. He looked okay. He looked great, like if he were to try to take over the world, nothing would stop him.

Phil just needs to figure out the rest of it. How often should he kiss Dan, what kind of kisses they should be, and what they should mean. The last one, he thinks, isn't as important as the others, but it might be nice to establish anyway.

He feels like a scientist. Like Sherlock.

“So I was thinking,” he says, walking into the lounge with two mugs of tea. He hands the Baemax one to Dan who's already sunk a few inches into his sofa crease and sits down carefully beside him.

“What about?” Dan’s put The Great British Bake-Off on, and Phil’s seen this one before so he knows who's going to get yelled at next. He keeps it to himself.

“About the thing.”

Dan blows at his tea, takes a sip and then makes a sound that is halfway between a moan and a squeak. “This is so good,” he says appreciatively, and then, “What thing? The kiss thing?”

“Yeah.”

Dan looks at him then, tipping his head just the slightest. “Do you regret it, or - ?”

“Um.” Phil takes another sip of his tea. “Not really. Not at all, I mean. I was thinking more along the lines of, we could do it again? Because it seemed to help you, and. And I want you to have a good Christmas, is all.”

Dan hums, and then nods, and then takes a sip of his tea.

Phil frowns at him. “A proper answer would be appreciated,” he points out. At that, Dan snickers.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Okay,” Phil nods and tries to ignore the warmth flooding in his chest, because it’s random and probably absolutely unrelated. “So, the specifics?”

“The specifics,” Dan echoes, sounding amused.

“Yeah. Like, how many? And till when. And also, um - ”

“Twenty,” Dan cuts him off. “And till Christmas. That should be enough, I think. For the holiday season.”

“Fifty,” Phil tries to negotiate. “Because I don’t think twenty will be enough,” he rushes to add. “And it’ll be cool to have a blanket. To, like, make sure. That you’re okay.”

“Okay,” Dan responds, sounding oddly affected. “S’there anything else?”

“Where?” Phil blurts out. He’s looking at the telly and nowhere else when he adds, “The kisses, where should they go? Not all of them on your - your mouth. Maybe.”

“Anywhere,” Dan offers. He sounds awkward and Phil can relate. He hadn’t quite anticipated how awkward this conversation would be. Apparently there’s only so much making tea can prepare him for.

“Anywhere,” Phil agrees, and falls silent.

“Anything else?” Dan asks. His voice is higher than it’s usual pitch, presumably out of embarrassment. Phil decides to spare him from any more of it.

“Nope.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

They watch the rest of Hell’s Kitchen in silence, Phil mumbling along to Gordon Ramsey’s rants until Dan pokes him in the stomach and demands that he shut up. Phil stays quiet after that, obviously, because he may be a bit odd-looking and has the strangest stories to tell, but he is also the world’s greatest best friend.

Before he goes to bed that night, he pops into the lounge and drops a kiss to the top of Dan’s head. It isn’t weird, he tells himself. It isn’t weird at all.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, he draws up a chart on a Manila card he finds underneath his bed, and sticks it to the sliding kitchen door. When Dan sees it, he laughs so hard Phil feels actual concern for his lungs. And, like, his diaphragm. Or something.

“S’not funny,” Phil grumps.

“It is very funny,” Dan corrects, coming to stand beside him in front of the Manila card. He slings his arm around Phil’s shoulders in a way he hasn’t done in long, and reads out loud, “Fifty kisses to Christmas.”

Phil’s written the heading in green and red markers, and he’s drawn a ring of holly in lieu of the dot over the  _ i _ ’s. In hindsight, it’s a  _ bit _ funny.

“I wasn’t aware we’d started already,” Dan adds. Under the fancy title, Phil’s drawn fifty verticle lines in rows of ten, and he’s struck out three of them.

“Oh,” Phil says, flustered.

“It’s fine.” Dan squeezes his shoulders just a bit, and then slides the kitchen door open and goes in. “You said you’d make me a toastie yesterday.”

“I forgot,” Phil admits, following him in while simultaneously willing the ridiculous blush on his cheeks to fade. “Got distracted with the - um.”

“The kiss thing?” He sounds amused, again.

“Glad you find it so funny.” He watches Dan go to open the cupboard where they keep the cereal, and says quickly, “Please don’t be mad at me.”

The box of Dan’s cereal is, predictably empty, and Dan turns around especially to direct a face full of frustration at Phil. He shrugs and sits on the counter, figuring that if Dan’s going to smack him for eating his cereal again, he’d have done it already. “So how are you feeling?” he asks, when Dan takes out the bread and pokes in the fridge for some cheese. “It’s in the third shelf, behind the vegemite,” he points out helpfully.

Dan locates the pot of cheese, pulls his head out of the fridge, and shoots a glance at Phil over his shoulder. “I’m doing good,” he answers delicately. “Are you sure vegemite goes in the fridge?”

Phil shrugs. “Better than yesterday?”

“Better than yesterday.” Dan nods at the stove. “Do we have anything to do in the evening? I was thinking - there are some episodes, remember, from -”

“We’ve got the thing with the BBC guys,” Phil remids him, certain that Dan knew and was just playing dumb. “Because we don’t reply to their emails. They got impatient, I think.” He doesn’t mean to sound severe, but it kind of happens.

He watches Dan’s posture stiffen with a rising dread in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m not -” Phil starts, but it’s all he gets out before Dan cuts him off.

“How much cheese do you want on yours?”

Phil wasn’t aware that Dan was making a toastie for him. “The regular amount,” he says, then hops off the counter and goes to peek over Dan’s shoulder, watching him spoon a dollop of cheese spread onto a slice of bread and spread it around. “That should be enough.” He doesn’t move from there, even when Dan starts to work on his own.

“I’m okay,” Dan says after a while.

“Because you know you can -”

“I know, Phil.” His voice is tight, but just a little. He’ll be fine, Phil thinks. They’ve just been lazy as of late, and it’s probably settled into Dan’s bones, like. They’ll go to the BBC in the evening and pick up some cakes after, the ones Dan’s been staring at when they pass by the bakery on their way back from the tube. He’ll be fine.

He drops a kiss to his shoulder anyway. “Four,” Dan counts, and Phil leaves the kitchen in search of his black marker.

 

* * *

 

 

The fifth one goes on the top of Dan’s head that night, when Phil passes him on the way to his bedroom. Dan smiles at him and says, “G’night, Phil.”  _ Five _ , Phil counts in his head.

 

* * *

 

 

When Phil stumbles into the lounge early the next morning, Dan’s slouched in his sofa crease, laptop balancing precariously on his knees with the brightness turned all the way up. “Dan?” Phil rubs at his eyes. “Have you slept?”

Dan looks up at him and shakes his head.

He looks surprisingly alert for someone who’s pulled an all-nighter. Phil abandons his mission to acquire some early morning tea in favour of dropping onto the couch beside Dan, and pulling his laptop onto his lap instead. “What’ve you been doing?” he asks, voice heavy and thicker than it usually is. He squints at the screen, reaching blindly to turn the brightness down.

“Looking over the sketches we came up with yesterday,” Dan says, and while his face might not show it, his voice bleeds with fatigue.

Phil turns his head to frown at him. “Did you even try to sleep?”

“I tried,” Dan insists, sounding upset. “I just - couldn’t. And I didn’t want to stay in my room because you always wake up when I pace. M’sorry.”

Phil shakes his head. “Don’t - don’t apologise, Dan.” He looks down at the laptop on his lap, open to a document full of the ideas they’d come up with with the BBC guys the previous evening, and searches for something to say. “What do you think of the sketches, then?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds a bit helpless. “I tried to come up with something new because - because I didn’t contribute much yesterday, did I? But I can’t, like. It was a bit useless, really.” He laughs, a hollow kind of laugh that doesn’t sit right with Phil at all.

“You were tired yesterday,” Phil says. “And you’re going to be even worse today. This was unnecessary, you know? You don’t have to worry about not contributing enough, Dan, we’re still a team. You and I. Right?”

“Right,” Dan repeats, not sounding very convinced.

“Hey.” Phil leans into him a little bit. “How about you go and get some sleep now, alright? And when you’re up we can have some cakes and go over the sketches again. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good,” Dan says, and Phil looks at him, he’s got a hint of a smile on his face. His cheeks are still pale, though, his eyes the slightest shade of red. Phil finds himself wishing he could fix it somehow, until he realises he can.

“C’mere,” he says softly, reaching out to curl his fingers in the soft material of Dan’s hoodie. He pulls him closer, just the bit, and watches as Dan’s eyes flutter shut almost of their own free will.

The kiss is gentle, both of them sleep-soft and warm. Phil pushes into him, just the little bit, claiming Dan’s soft lips as quietly as he can, and when Dan makes a little sound, fondness bleeds like a wound in his chest. He pulls away, only to press his lips to the soft skin of his chin, and then twice more to either of his cheeks. “Go to sleep,” he says quietly.

Dan opens his eyes at that, and he already looks infinitely better, softer, sleepier than he had looked when Phil had wandered in on his quest for tea. He leans into Phil again and says, “Thank you,” before getting to his feet and stumbling out of the lounge. Phli looks down at his knees, shuts Dan’s laptop and rests it on the coffee table.

Once his heart has stopped bouncing around in his chest like an overexcited two-year-old at the zoo, he goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

 

* * *

 

 

Numbers ten, eleven and twelve are goodnight kisses, dropped onto Dan’s shoulder, head, and head, respectively. Number thirteen is a thank-you peck on the lips, when Phil wakes up on Sunday to Dan cooking up a full English in the kitchen. They watch Studio Ghibli films the entire day, and don’t do much else.

On Monday, they break out the Christmas decorations and put the tree up in the lounge. When Dan wins the coin-toss and goes up on his toes to put the star on top of the tree, Phil goes on his toes to press a kiss onto his nose. They both blush, laugh awkwardly, and look away. Dan fidgets with the star and claims it looks wonky, and Phil goes to the kitchen to update the tally. Once he’s crossed out one more straight line, he stares at the Manila card and realises they’ll have to speed things up a little bit if they want to finish all fifty by Christmas.

 

* * *

 

The next week, PJ comes over for lunch.

The kisses have become a bit of a thing already. It’s seeped into their routine, like; Dan hanging around in front of the sink after breakfast long enough to let Phil drop a kiss to his shoulder, another one on the cheek in the afternoon when Dan elbows him for mouthing along to all of Gordon Ramsey’s rants, both of them gravitating to each other before Phil goes to bed for the night. Dan relaxes into every one, smiling a bit when Phil kisses him out of affection, looking away when he leans in and asks for one with his eyes, always stepping away after with something new to say, longing to dissipate the awkwardness that doesn’t quite exist anymore.

When PJ comes over for lunch, he brings a bowl of salad with him. “My contribution to the meal,” he informs them, setting it on the table and looking about proudly. Dan, standing behind him, makes a face. Phil laughs.

He’s set the table, and cleared the lounge, and the house smells pleasantly of the cinnamon and sausage stir fry Dan’s supervising in the kitchen. It’s not a well known fact, but Phil  _ loves  _ to host people. He gets all excited, brings out the glassware and buys good wine from Tesco, makes jelly and pudding and homemade pizzas if he can manage it, replaces the towels in the bathroom with the embroidered ones from his Nan. It cracks Dan up more often than not, when he walks into the kitchen and Phil’s by the stove cooking up a storm. (Or, at least, trying to.)

It’s horribly domestic, and he loves it.

“Get out of my sight,” Dan orders PJ, pushing him into the lounge and rolling his eyes again.

“Be nice,” Phil tells him, pressing his lips fleetingly to the exposed skin of Dan’s neck, before following PJ into the lounge. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks him. Behind, Dan stomps back to the kitchen.

“I know you’ve got good wine,” PJ says, wagging his fingers at Phil. His feet are propped on the coffee table and he’s already toggled the telly to a footie match, because PJ’s the only one of the lot of them who’s got any interest in sports at all. Phil chooses not to complain about it just yet. “Also,” PJ adds, drawing the word out. He raises his eyebrows at Phil. “Did you just kiss Dan, or did I imagine it?”

“You imagined it,” Phil says immediately. “A glass of our finest, coming right up.”

PJ makes a gesture with his arms, where he spreads them out and shrugs and it’s sort of like,  _ whatever.  _ Phil doesn’t run to the kitchen, but it’s a close call.

The meal is quite nice. At least, Phil thinks it is, but he  _ is _ a bit tipsy on the good wine. Dan and PJ are too, the former possibly more than the latter. It’s great. They’re lounging in the… lounge. They’d been playing the Wii for a while, until PJ beat his arse in snooker three times in a row and Phil begged off a fourth go. Now they’re just lying on assorted pieces of furniture and saying stupid things. Like, for example –

“So when did the two of you start dating?”

Dan chokes on, like, air.

“Two of who?” Phil asks. He’s staring up at the ceiling, a bit enthralled by all the floaty things in his sight that appear every time he blinks especially hard.

“The two of you,” PJ says. When Phil raises his head to look at him, he’s got a forefinger out and is very obviously pointing at Dan and him.

Dan makes another choking sound. Phil turns his attention to him and asks, “Are you okay?”

It’s a bit difficult to look at him properly because he’s sort of sprawled on the sofa, his head on Dan’s lap, like. Very friendly stuff. From his point of view, Dan looks a bit red, and Phil is properly concerned.

“We aren’t dating,” Dan says, which, okay. Okay.

“We aren’t dating,” Phil confirms, and then reaches out to take Dan’s hand in his. It’s a very nice hand, he thinks. Quite soft, and that.

“Right,” PJ says, not sounding convinced in the slightest.

“Would you like a top up?” Dan asks, jerking forward like he’s about to grab PJ’s glass, even though he’s sitting on the bean bag a good way away.

“I think we’ve had enough, wouldn’t you say?” PJ replies amicably. He’s standing up now, brushing down his jeans and adjusting his shirt. Very posh, like. Phil is impressed.

From his place on Dan’s lap, he pouts. “Are you leaving already?”

“I think so, yes,” PJ responds with a half-grin. He comes over to where Dan’s sat and pats his head, and then reaches down to pat Phil’s too. Phil leans into the touch a little bit, before pushing himself up and getting to his feet.

“I’ll see you to the door,” he says, and does.

After PJ’s left, Phil returns to the lounge to find the sofa empty, and the room of Dan’s door shut. He goes to knock at it, because he still feels a bit light-headed from the wine and he’s a clingy sort of drunk. Not that he’s, like,  _ drunk _ . Not at all.

“Dan?” he says, and then knocks thrice, fancying himself Sheldon Cooper from that show about the science nerds. “Dan?” he asks again, following it up with another three knocks.  

“M’sleeping!” Dan calls from inside. Phil frowns at the door, because it’s just gone five in the evening, and Dan doesn’t sound sleepy in the slightest.

“I’m coming in,” he calls back, before twisting the knob and stepping in.

Dan’s sat cross-legged on the floor on the other side of his bed, back pressed up against the wall, head buried between his knees. Phil goes to sit beside him, pressing their shoulders together, something sad tugging at a place in his chest dangerously close to where his heart is. “You okay?” he asks. It comes out loud, louder than he’d intended it to. Dan flinches away, even if it’s just a little.

He nods, but doesn’t say anything, and Phil feels a bit like he’s falling. He feels very much out of control. “Is it bad?” he asks, because Dan’s mind is beautiful beautiful beautiful and he’s even cleverer when he’s drunk but right now he just seems so, so sad.

“Quite bad,” Dan responds, voice all soft and distant. Phil lifts a hand and puts it around his shoulder, pulling Dan into his chest. It’s a bit awkward because Dan’s head is still tucked between his knees and he isn’t very willing to budge, but. It’s something.

“Come to bed,” Phil says, when a few empty moments have passed.

It’s weird, he thinks, how Dan makes him feel content and then disparate in the space of a few short minutes. It had been nice having PJ over, they’d talked throughout lunch and then for hours after, and Dan had seemed okay. But he doesn’t seem okay now, when he goes limp as Phil pulls him to his feet and leads him to the bed. He leans into Phil more than he usually lets himself, and Phil thinks it’s most definitely the wine. He bought a bottle of good wine and now Dan is sad, and Phil doesn’t know how to help.

It’s not a horribly clever idea, climbing onto the bed after Dan and pulling the covers over them both, but he does it anyway.

They just lie there first, side by side, shoulders barely touching. His heart is in his mouth, and beside him Dan is strangely quiet, breathing loudly. “I think we can submit our final sketches tomorrow,” Phil says, desperately needing to fill up the heavy silence that envelopes them both. “D’you think they’ll like it? I think the sofa one is a bit,  _ blegh _ , you know? But the one about the carnival is great. And our game suggestions are great, too, like the giant Jenga one? And the caller karaoke. They’re going to love that one, like. I can tell.”

Dan nods mutely.

“I wish – “ Phil starts, and then doesn’t know how to continue. Instead, he takes Dan’s hand in his under the blankets.  _ I wish you’d tell me what goes on in that head of yours _ , he thinks.  _ I wish you’d tell me how to properly help. I wish you’d stop worrying me so. I wish you weren’t so hard on yourself. I wish. I wish. I wish. _

“I know,” Dan breathes out.

“Can I – “

Dan is nodding before he can finish.

Phil turns his head to see that Dan’s already looking at him, and it’s easy after that, to lean forward and fit their lips together.  _ Twenty-seven _ , he thinks. Then he gets lost in the soft warmth that Dan is, that Dan has always been, he gets lost in how he smells like the cinnamon sausage chilly they’d cooked up for lunch, and how he tastes like the wine they’ve been downing like water for a good few hours, and how he feels like everything familiar, everything that Phil knows, everything that he loves.

Dan leans back, hands around Phil’s neck, rolling onto his back with Phil on top of him. It’s a new angle, and Phil braces himself with his elbows on either side of Dan’s head, and leans back to kiss at his nose, and his cheeks, and his eyelids that have since fluttered shut, before returning to his lips when he makes a small whisper-moan.

It isn’t supposed to feel this way, he thinks, kissing your best friend. But this is how it feels to kiss Dan. Like it would only be weird if he were to stop. Like that isn’t even an option anymore, when Dan slides his hands into Phil’s hair and tugs the slightest bit, enough to make all the blood in Phil’s body rush to his crotch, and, oh. That’s new.

“Dan,” he whispers, and pulls back.

“Don’t,” Dan says. His eyes are shut but he tips his head back, need apparent in the soft flush of his neck and face. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, reaching for Phil’s face and pulling him back down. He kisses him then, the first time he’s initiated it, lips hot and searching, and while every cell in Phil’s body protests, he lets himself give in.

They fall asleep not long after, Phil’s lips pressed to Dan’s neck, his head buried there like it belongs, Dan’s black duvet cocooning them both.

When they wake, the sun has set and Dan refuses to let it become awkward, thank fuck.

“M’going to make coffee,” he murmurs into Phil’s hair, before climbing out of bed and leaving the room. Phil rolls over, rubbing at his eyes sleepily, and marvels at how quickly they’d fallen asleep tangled around each other. The space beside him not feels cold and empty. He pulls himself out of bed and goes to draw the curtains.

“How are you going to count those?” Dan asks when Phil wanders into the kitchen not long after. He’s since washed his face and gargled his mouth and pulled on his thickest hoodie, because  _ someone _ had forgotten to turn the heater up after PJ left and the flat is alarmingly cold now, and he doesn’t feel sleepy anymore but the question still catches him off guard.

“Count what?” he asks, leaning into press his lips to Dan’s shoulder before he can stop himself. He moves away quickly to pull himself up on the counter.

Dan turns to look at him, a strange sort of smile on his face. “The kisses. Before we, um, fell asleep.”

“Oh.” Phil rubs his lips and looks away, feeling oddly caught out. “I don’t know?” He tries to count now, in his head, rather unsuccessfully. It had felt like a good five hundred kisses, is the absolute truth. But Phil’s never been the most truthful kind of person anyway. “Fifteen, maybe,” he offers.

Dan hums his agreement – or dissent? Phil can’t be sure. He hums his  _ something _ and takes the pot of coffee off of the stove, fetching their cups and filling them.

“We’ve got marshmallows,” Phil says, reaching his hands up to feel for the cabinets on top of his head. He kicks his heels against the counter, grunting when he can’t reach.

“I’ll get it for you, before you fall and crack your head and I’ll be thrown in jail for manslaughter.” When Dan comes to stand in front of him, he looks down at Phil in amusement. He looks much more relaxed than he’d looked before, and when he stretches up to open the cabinet and pull out the packet of marshmallows, Phil runs his fingers down his sides, to where a strip of pale skin is exposed as his t-shirt rides up.

Dan squirms away instantly, almost dropping the packet. “Don’t,” he laughs breathlessly. “It – “

“Tickles?” Phil taunts, jabbing his fingers in a bit harder this time. Dan squirms again, but moves in closer.

“Yeah,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Phil.

“Well.” His fingers still at the soft skin of Dan’s belly, quite of their own accord. He presses them in, and under the pads of his fingers Dan feels warm and real and beautiful beautiful beautiful.

Phil is maybe a little bit tipsy still.

“Coffee,” Dan says, moving away to take their cups into the lounge. Phil stays on the counter for a moment longer, definitely not catching his breath, before hopping down and following.

After, Phil strokes out fifteen lines on the Manila card. Nine to go, and three days till Christmas. He takes a deep, calming breath, before going to turn on the lights around the tree.

Forty-two is dropped to Dan’s forehead that night before he goes to sleep, and forty-three to the soft skin of neck after breakfast the next day. They go out gift shopping – a tad late this year, but it’s fine long as it gets done is Phil’s reasoning on the matter – and it’s all he can do to stop himself from pushing Dan into the racks full of Christmas CDs in the disc shop and kissing him silly. He’d just made a stupid Father Christmas joke and after that he’d laughed so ridiculously, his tongue poking through his teeth, a habit he’d very recently picked up from Phil, and the urge had come out of nowhere.

Phil had tamped it down immediately, and suggested they leave the shop because  _ CDs make the worst gifts, Dan, honestly. _

Right before lunchtime, they go their separate ways under the pretence of picking something up for each other, agreeing to meet at the Starbucks in the city square at half past noon. It’s a bit stupid, Phil thinks, because they usually just order things online and hope they don’t get delivered when the other is home, so. Dan’s probably gone to pick up whatever it is he’d been meaning to buy for Martyn.

Not for the first time, Phil marvels at how well Dan gets along with the rest of his family. And, really, how well Dan gets along with him. It’s a bit cliché but it  _ does _ feel sometimes a little bit like fate, like they were meant to find each other, and move in together, and plan an entwined sort of future. Like two halves of a whole. Or, maybe, like two wholes that fit together, just right.

He shakes the thought out of his head, the sudden realisation that Dan’s become a fixture in his life now, hasn’t he? He shakes it away, chooses not to give it much thought. It’s the occupational hazard of having a best friend, he rationalises. You aren’t supposed to imagine a life without them.

Phil presses the forty-fourth kiss close-lipped to the back of Dan’s neck, when they squeeze out of Starbucks later in the day, breath still smelling of toffee-nut lattes, snow swirling around them, safe and enclosing. Dan presses back into him, fleetingly. It’s cold all around but Dan’s skin is warm warm warm and Phil isn’t tipsy anymore. He’s certain you aren’t supposed to feel this way when you kiss your best friend. He just doesn’t know what to do  _ now _ .

Forty five, forty six, forty seven, forty eight –

And then it’s Christmas eve, and they’re in the kitchen trying to make butterbeer.

The counter’s a proper mess, but Phil supposes that’s expected. They’d spent two whole hours earlier looking for the ‘perfect butterbeer recipe’, until they found one that Harry Potter World apparently uses. Dan had been enthused had first, even volunteering to pop down to Tesco’s to get the butter and beer that their scampily stocked kitchen lacked. 

Now, he rests against the fridge and looks at Phil, eyes dull. “This is never going to happen,” he says, as Phil empties a cup of sugar into the pot.

“Shut up,” Phil advises him, smiling to show he doesn’t quite mean it.

“You’re cheery,” Dan notices distastefully.

“It’s Christmas eve.” Phil rests the now empty cup on the counter and goes back to the fridge, where they’ve put up the recipe they’d downloaded from the net. Tapping Dan on the nose, he says, “ _ You’re _ being grumpy.”

“I’m being realistic,” Dan corrects. “This is never going to happen.”

“And yet it almost has.” Phil taps the recipe, underlining step seven with his pointer finger. “Almost there, in fact.”

Dan rolls his eyes and reaches out to - pinch him? poke him? stick his finger up Phil’s nose? - but before he can get away with it, Phil grabs his hand and pulls him closer, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.

He stops himself just in time.

Stepping away jerkily, he pulls his hand away and goes to the pot on the stove, staring at it absently for a full moment before taking a wooden spoon to stir the golden-brown mixture in it. An odd silence settles between the two of them, before Dan begins humming a tune from the Studio Ghibli movie they’d watched last night.

Phil bites into his bottom lip and berates himself for making it awkward.

The thing is, he has stupidly ( _ stupidly _ ) decided to save the last two kisses for Christmas day. He doesn’t even  _ know _ why, besides the fact that it feels right, like something Dan might appreciate. Something appropriate to the season. (They’d refrained from hanging up any mistletoe when they’d done decorations, at least.) He finds it stupid now, giving so much thought to something as mundane as the kisses. Might be better to get them all over with soon as he can, he thinks. The odd discomfort that settles in his tummy at the thought doesn’t do much to alleviate the thick cloud of indecision in his head.

 

* * *

 

“I think it’s done,” he announces, twenty minutes and half a bar of chocolate later. 

“Bring my mug in here, will you?” Dan calls from the lounge, where he’s fiddling with the stereo and trying to get it to play some carols. 

Phil pours out the butterbeer into two of their most Christmassy mugs - a white and blue snowman one, and another that he  _ thinks _ is supposed to resemble the gingerbread house - and puts them on a tray with some biscuits, because it’s Christmas Eve and he still isn’t sure deciding not to travel up to be with his family for the holiday was a very smart move. Dan lights up when he walks into the lounge with the tray, though, and somehow that makes him feel better. 

Dan’s quiet when he takes his first sip of the butterbeer, and then he looks at Phil sheepishly and says, “It’s quite great.” 

“It’s  _ so _ good,” Phil agrees, still surprised it came out so well. The beverage is thick and buttery, burning its way down his throat in the way beer is wont to do. He stretches his legs out on the sofa, tucking his toes under Dan’s thighs. 

Dan grins at him with a butterbeer moustache from where he’s settled in his crease. “Merry Christmas Eve, Phil,” he says, voice thick with butterbeer and something like affection. 

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Phil returns, and takes a gulp from his own mug before he goes to add more. 

They stay up till midnight, mugs lying empty on the coffee table, Pentatonix’s Christmas album playing softly from the stereo. When the fireworks go off, Dan gets to his feet and goes to turn off the music. Before he can get too far, Phil pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tight and laughing a bit when he lets go. “Good night,” he huffs into Dan’s chest. The urge to kiss him - a soft, gentle press to his lips or his cheek or his  _ anywhere  _ \- is ridiculously overwhelming.

“Good night,” Dan says, and pokes at his cheek. “See you tomorrow.”   
  


* * *

 

When Phil wakes for the third time in the middle of the night, he rolls onto his side and lets out a keening whine into his pillow. Every part of his body aches, a demanding pull in the back of his legs and his neck and his pits and his stomach. Even in his sleep-addled state, he knows he’s got a fever, but he doesn’t know what to  _ do _ about it. He doesn’t even  _ want _ to do anything about it. He just wants to  _ sleep _ . 

That is, evidently, too much to ask for. 

He shuts his eyes and twists his legs together, letting the thick material of the comforter get caught between his limbs. He’d put on socks before going to bed, but now he kicks them off, and whines again when it feels too cold all of a sudden. “Shut up,” he mutters at the itch underneath his skin. “Shut up, shut up, shut  _ up _ .” 

He slips into another bout of fitful sleep then, blankets cocooning him in a mess of too-warm and too-cold and a discomfort that unrepentantly grates against his bones.   
  


* * *

 

 

“Budge over,” someone’s saying. “Phil,  _ ugh _ , you’re so - oh, for God’s sake, Phil.  _ Move _ .” 

He makes a soft sound - a soft, pitiful, desperate sound - at being woken again. Twisting his upper body, he endeavours to open his eyes but fails miserably, is only self-aware enough to know it’s got to still be dark outside, and then he focuses on the warm hands that attempt to be - pushing him? He moves with them, all of a sudden compliant to the familiar smell of body lotion and ginger tea that infiltrates his senses. 

“C’mon,” says the voice again, and then those same warm hands reach out and pull him into a sturdy chest, holds him there, and don’t move an inch as he curls into himself and rests his feverish forehead against a soft t-shirt. The ache in his bones subsides, if only a little. “Go to sleep,” says Dan, voice thick with fatigue and something else, something  _ fond _ , and this time when Dan dozes off it’s to the reassurance that he isn’t going to die. 

Miraculously, he sleeps through the night.   
  


* * *

 

He wakes to the smell of ginger and chicken, and to the steady drumming of the sun on his closed eyelids. Immediately, he burrows under the comforter, sweaty mess that he is be damned. 

“Phil,” Dan says, and he sounds on the edge of laughter. “Hey - wake up. I’ve brought you soup.”

“Go away,” Phil says. It comes out muffled and makes him sound like a disgruntled moose. He sticks his head out of the confines of the comforter, refusing still to open his eyes. “Go  _ away _ ,” he says again. Much better. 

“M’not going away till you’ve had your soup,” says Dan, in a close approximation to Phil’s mum. The thought alone is enough to jerk him awake -  _ properly _ awake this time - and he retreats fully from the covers, angles his face carefully away from the windows, and lets his eyes flutter open. 

Dan’s sitting on the edge of his bed, a bowl of steaming hot soup in his hand, an expression of fond exasperation on his face. “I’ve got a fever,” Phil says,  _ stupidly _ , and then: “You sound like my mum.”

“True on both counts,” Dan tells him. Then he extends his hands, bowl and all, in Phil’s direction. “Quick, before it becomes cold.” 

Dan retreats into the lounge while Phil has his soup; it’s an exceptional kind of soup, the chicken melting so readily in his mouth that he’s half a mind to ask Dan for his recipe, till he realises he’ll probably never use it, disgusting slob that he is. It’s a fitting description, because the moment the soup is over, he sets the bowl down on the floor beside the bed and sinks back into his covers, moaning in pain as his joints rub against each other creakily. He feels no younger than fifty in his present, fever-riddled state. 

“You’re definitely sick,” says Dan, now standing at the doorway. Phil makes a sound at him, disgruntled and pathetic. “Would you like to go to the doctor’s, then?” 

Phil wrinkles his nose at that, realising at the last moment that Dan can’t see him. “No,” he grunts. Do doctors even come in on Christmas? “I just need to - ” he cuts himself off with a yawn. “Sleep this off.” 

“Didn’t work last night,” Dan points out smartly. 

Phil scowls. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I’m having fun here,” Dan says. He disappears from the doorway for a moment, and then returns with his laptop, carrying it right in and getting into bed beside Phil, who frowns at him. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Think I’ll stay here, if it’s not too much of a problem.” Dan grins at him, but there’s still some lingering apprehension in his eyes. “I’ll be handy for a cuddle if you feel like it, at least.” 

Phil juts out his bottom lip. “I thought we aren’t going to talk about last night.” 

Dan just waggles his eyebrows at him. He gets out his phone and taps at the screen. As Phil attempts once again to drown himself in the comforter, Dan says, “I think I’ll inform Louise we won’t be able to make it? Merry Christmas, by the way. You’re going to make me ill.” 

“You don’t  _ have _ to be here,” Phil grumbles, not moving an inch despite his toes sticking out at the edge of the bed. He wishes desperately for his socks. “You don’t have to - “ He coughs, once, dry and pitiful. “You can go over to Louise’s,” he continues. “Without me, like.” 

Dan makes a sound above him, something like a scoff. “Don’t be silly.” 

“M’not,” Phil protests, fatigue already dragging him under. “I’m going to ruin your - “ Another cough. “Ruin your Christmas.” 

“You’re going to do no such thing, shut up.” 

Phil’s asleep before he can protest some more. 

 

* * *

 

When he’s up, the room is definitely darker. It must be about four in the afternoon, he reckons, and his first thought is that it’s going to be a right waste of a Christmas. 

His second thought is that Dan’s lying next to him, laptop discarded, snoring softly on his back. And he’s all but radiating heat. 

After but a moment’s thought, Phil burrows in, contagious germs be damned. He curls himself around Dan’s warm frame, tucking his freezing toes under Dan’s legs, and just as he’s begun to drift off again, Dan jerks awake with a - “Ow, your toes are fucking -  _ cold _ , Phil, Jesus Christ.” 

“I’m sorry,” Phil whispers into Dan’s neck, holding on tight lest he move away. His head is still foggy with the sickness, stuck on the last dream he’d been having about buying too many winter jumpers and then having to wear them all at once.  _ Weird. _ “Don’t go,” he says, although he hadn’t quite meant to say that out loud. Oh well. 

“M’not going to, just, budge over a bit, yeah?” Dan blows out a breath, not sounding half as frustrated as he should be at Phil positively sabotaging his holiday. 

Phil scoots down the bed a bit, reaching almost immediately for Dan as he does so. There’s a brief scuffle to push the blankets down enough for Dan to move closer, and then drag the blankets up again to envelop them both in a cocoon of blue and green and white. Then Dan’s lying on his back again, Phil burrowed shamelessly into his chest, and he finds himself saying again, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Dan says this time, arms circling Phil’s waist. “D’you feel better? Not - hungry, or something? There’s a roast in the kitchen - had it delivered earlier, because we had no food. Except for some cucumbers, and the beer from last night.” 

Phil wrinkles his nose at the thought of eating something. “Feed a cold...” he murmurs, unable to muster up the energy to complete the statement. 

“Starve a fever,” Dan agrees. “Smart lad. Going to sleep again, then?” 

Phil raises his head to look at Dan, at his familiar dark eyes and the softness of his face. He says what he’s been thinking for a while now: “M’sorry it’s a waste of a holiday.”

“Don’t,” Dan says, smiling ruefully. He tugs Phil, impossibly, closer. “S’the least I can do, really, yeah?” 

Phil wonders what he means by it, but can’t quite come up with anything. He can’t seem to drag his eyes away from Dan, though, touches their noses together, delighted to find even Dan’s nose warm like the rest of him. “So hot,” he says, and it comes out sounding wrong. Dan quirks an eyebrow at him, and Phil giggles. 

Then he remembers that he’s got two kisses left. 

“Hold still,” he says, leaning up. Dan looks confused for the long moment it takes Phil to figure out how to press their mouths together, but when he does, Dan visibly relaxes into him, into the familiarity of the action.  _ Stupid _ , Phil thinks.  _ To think of kissing your best friend as familiar. _ But the thought is quickly squished between their lips, the warm, soft kiss robbing Phil of his ability to think anymore. 

“Merry Christmas,” he breathes into the miniscule space between them, and then Dan huffs out what might be a laugh, and drags their lips together for another go.

_ Fifty _ , Phil thinks. It’s the last one. He’s keen to make it last, but their lips separate too quick, and Phil wants to whine. In fact he  _ does _ whine, except Dan presses their lips together before it can get too loud, and Phil is far too disoriented to push him away. 

_ Fifty-one _ , he counts in his head. And then, when they resurface for air and go in for another:  _ Fifty-two _ . Then Dan rolls them around, blanket tangling between their long, long legs, until he’s hovering over Phil with something dark and fond in his eyes, and when he leans down to kiss Phil again, once, careful and gentle like a prayer, Phil stops counting at all. 

They stay that way for a long while, Dan sprawled across him like a piece of the sun, warm and soft and comfortable to a fault, pressing kisses into the skin of Phil’s forehead and cheeks and chin, his neck and - once, confusingly - his ear. Then Dan buries his face in Phil’s neck and mutters there, “I don’t want to stop.” His voice is scared, wobbly, vulnerable, and affection blooms like a wound in Phil’s chest. 

“No,” Phil gasps out, before he can stop himself. He’s ill, he knows, not quite in complete control of his senses. But he’s never been more sure about what he wants. “We don’t have to stop,” he says. He doesn’t know how coherent he is now, already almost twelve thousand leagues under the sea, but when Dan raises his head to touch their noses together -  _ eskimo kiss _ , Phil hazily acknowledges - he thinks he got the message across.   
  


* * *

 

 

“Happy new year!” PJ hollers the moment he steps inside, thrusting his coat into Phil’s waiting arms before ambling into the kitchen, nose in the air like a sniffing dog. “What’s for lunch?” Phil hears him ask Dan, who should be spooning the pasta into the canapes by now.

“Nothing, if Phil leaves me to this for any longer,” Dan mumbles, and Phil laughs quietly to himself. He hangs PJ’s coat on the rack and follows him into the kitchen, leaning over the counter to inspect the canapes, while Dan leans over  _ his  _ shoulder with his eyebrows raised. “So?” he asks archly. “Do I pass the inspection?” 

“They are quite satisfactory,” says Phil just to mess with him, and when Dan scowls at him once he considers it a well executed jab. PJ watches them both in amusement, before clapping his hands together and asking them if they’ve still got Just Dance on their Xbox. 

“I am  _ not _ working out on the first day of the year,” Dan protests stoutly, but his words fall on deaf ears when PJ whizzes out of the kitchen and into the lounge, presumably to get the game ready. 

“Don’t be a grump,” Phil advises, putting the canapes on a tray and checking on the shepherd’s pie in the oven. When he gets it out and sets it on the counter, Dan moves into his space like he’s begun to do as of late, nosing gently at his cheek until Phil removes his mittens and pays attention to him. 

“I’m not being a grump,” Dan mumbles, eyes dancing with mischief and leftover protest. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling,” says Phil. The last of his words get squeezed between the two of them in a short, warm kiss. They’ve since taken down the manila card from the sliding doors of the kitchen. 

(And, frankly, Phil’s lost count.) 

**Author's Note:**

> any brickbats or bouquets? comments greatly appreciated :D 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr!!](http://twentyonepapads.tumblr.com)


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